The Shoe Box
by AngelTrisha9
Summary: In the middle of a night, on a special night, Kate opens her shoe box.


A silent scream squeezes her throat and Kate opens her eyes. She doesn't even have to look at the clock to know it's just past midnight. The cold sheen of sweat covering her body and the pain in heart tells her better than any clockin the world ever could.

It's always the same on this particular day, has been for the past six years: she wakes up from the dream, tears burning her eyes and guilt clogging her throat. On this night, she turns to the warm body sleeping next to her, it's been the same man for the past two years, but never before has somebody lasted that long. But as she looks at him, she knows she needs space, to be away from him. This night, the dreams and her feelings are hers alone and they're something he has no right to, no place in. Not now, not ever.

So Kate gets out of bed and walks to her closet. There's a box there, one that reads 'shoes', but doesn't contain a single one. She takes it down, and grabs a blanket. As silently as she can, she makes her way to the back porch, letting Rook, her great Dane, out while she sits on the swing, staring out into the desert.

Arizona was different from New York. The people here were friendlier, less rushed, but managed to be nosier. They always asked what a "pretty detective" like her wanted to move down to a sleepy town like this. Sleepy town was what she had needed; she still did. The wide open space, the arid climate and the rugged terrain were a welcome break from what she'd known. She needed a safe haven where she didn't see him on every street corner, when she didn't hear Nikki Heat everywhere and where she could actually work without fear of memories, but some followed her all the same.

Taking a deep breath, Kate opens the box and the pain grows even worse, as fresh as it had been six years ago, because she doesn't let herself feel it any other time but this night, once a year, otherwise she knows she'll drown in it. The items in the box are always in the same order because she never touches them or moves the box. The first things on top are cards she doesn't dare send to Alexis: Birthday, Christmas, Graduation, Congratulations; they pile up, filled out and ready to be sent, but the girl would never read them.

Next are the pictures, about a hundred of him, of them, of the guys, Lanie, Martha, the captain. Doing silly things, everyday things, skating, sleeping, eating, laughing. Always laughing. The life in his blue eyes mocking her every time she looks at them; drilling a new hole in her heart to where she hides her desire to see it and to hear it, his laughter, just one more time.

There's one, framed, that kills her every time. They're dancing in his living room and he's kissing her forehead gently. It was supposed to be a private morning dance in their jammies, but Alexis had woken up and had snapped the picture before they could protest. It had gone on his desk within five minutes and she'd known he'd stared at it whenever he had been blocked.

She looks at the pictures, all of them, at least twice, tracing everyone's faces, but she lingers on his. If she closes her eyes and thinks about it hard enough, she can almost feel his skin under her fingertips. Its rugged softness was permanently burned in her heart, even if they hadn't had long to explore the intimacy. Seventeen months, one week and four days, that's all they were given. It was not enough, not nearly enough, but she still could remember the little details: the ticklish spots, the moaning ones, the relaxing ones and she hopes to a God she's stopped believing in that she would never lose those memories.

She puts those aside when she can't see them through the tears welling up, but refused to let them fall. Then her hands closes on an old cell phone. It's the one she had six years ago when it happened, Everything had been transferred and copied out a long time ago, but she needs this, needs the elusive connection of knowing he's the one who sent the pictures and the texts. The battery doesn't last the year, and most of the time, she doesn't recharge it to see them, she just holds it in her hand and she feels it, remembering the smiles she would get when reading his messages, all of them silly and sweet. She covers her mouth with it when a sob threatens to come out.

She takes a deep breath and puts it aside. The next item, off to the side, is a fountain pen she'd given him after the release of Heat Wave. An almost gag gift for when he'd come back to the precinct after the publicity tour. It has the NYPD logo with his name next to it. His very own detective fountain pen. He'd been thrilled like a little kid and had taken it to every book signing from that point on. She'd touched it too much in the past six years for it to be true, but as she looks at it now, Kate could swear she can still see his fingerprints on it. If she holds it long enough, it warms up and it's like he just put it aside.

It goes down on her lap with the pictures and the cell phone and she takes a red clown nose out of the box. He hadd worn it when she'd been sick. A stupid cold that had put her on her back for three days and she'd whined like an idiot about everything, but mostly about her red nose, how it was like a beacon. He'd laughed and given her some soup. The next morning, she had flipped in bed and had seen it on his face, just above his grin. He'd kissed her and it had popped off, making her laugh. Then he had put it back on, saying they could join always Santa's sleigh and he'd worn it until her nose had been back to its natural colour.

She holds the nose in her hand for a second longer and then she puts it down to reach for the second to last item in the box. It's a paper copy of Night Heat, his fourth, as of yet unpublished, Nikki Heat novel. It's ready to be sent to his publisher and he had even written the dedication in. Every time she looks at it, she can see the future they never got to have.

"_To the extraordinary KB, you were right, I had no idea. Keep surprising me, RC."_

_Nobody understood it when he put it there, but she did. She would give everything she has for a chance to see his WTF? face again, to quip that she's a endless mystery even though, he had always been able to read her like no one else on this planet. She holds the manuscript to her heart, but doesn't look at it again. She's never been past the dedication page, one day maybe, when she's old, but not now._

_Then comes the last item in the box. It's a patch that used to be sown on a bullet proof vest. It reads: WRITER. The white letters are dirty from being kept in the trunk of a car, but they're not as dirty or torn the way she wants them to be. He hadn't been wearing it that day._

_He had been feeling off and she had known he was coming down with the flu, but this had been a big case and there was no way he wouldn't come for the big showdown. He'd been running a fever so she had asked him to stay in the car. He had argued of course, but she had pulled the look, the one he'd never been able to resist and she had always refused to admit she did it. She had begged him, said he needed to stay in the car, she couldn't take the risk of him going dizzy mid-chase. She'd told him she couldn't live with the consequences if something happened, He had kissed her then and sat back down, barely hiding his relief._

_She'd gone in with Ryan and Esposito, comforted in the knowledge that he would be safe. The shot came about 45 seconds later. The perp had seen them coming and he'd circled back around the building and had shot Castle in the heart, thinking he was a cop, before pulling him out of the car, leaving with it as a last 'Up Yours.' She had gotten there just has he'd sped away._

_There was nothing for her to do but put her hand over the bullet hole, apply inadequate pressure and watch as he struggled to breathe. He had looked at her as she begged him to hang on, just hang on, please hang on. There had been so much love in his eyes. None of the accusation she felt should have been there, just love. He'd found the strength to put his hand over hers and he had asked her to tell his women he loved them, that he'd say 'Hi!' to her mother. For a man who was so alive and had so much to live for, he'd accepted the inevitable more easily than she had._

_He'd been gone by the time the paramedics had arrived at the scene, his hand still on hers, limp now, and his blood on her hands, still warm._

_His extraordinary KB had shattered that day and it had taken more than two years of roaming to put herself back to some semblance of order, leaving everything behind, but his books, this box and the three items that held her tattered soul together every day: a ring, for the life she's lost, a watch, for the life she's saved, and a mock NYPD ID card that read Katherine Castle, for the life she could have had._


End file.
